


Seer

by chere_enigma



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Splash Free, Elementals, Endgame undecided, M/M, Rating May Change, Warnings to be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chere_enigma/pseuds/chere_enigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a water mage, there are numerous things Nanase Haruka has to fear while embarking on his perilous trek through the desert – water bandits, mirages and elementals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seer

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies beforehand for inconsistent style and sporadic updates. I currently (embarrassingly!!) lack the patience to edit as the prologue has taken me eons to complete, so please take the liberty to excuse any jarring and blatantly ugly fallacies. Will strive to revise at a later time though! This is the fantasy/S1ED AU i've wanted to write for about ever, so please enjoy and leave concrit. First time posting on AO3 and first contribution to the Free fandom.

He stirs abruptly from the trance of drowning in reminiscence and prophecy within his slumber and somehow manages to hit a vase of some sort in the surrounding vicinity. The resulting distortion of sound unfortunately carries across the room and soon he can hear the harsh wheezes and gut-wrenching coughs of the boy, shivering in a cot secured tightly in a nook of the dwelling.

The boy is shivering, yet the arid scorch of the desert is unrelenting long after Luna had come out to play, despite rancid heat forever penetrating and overwhelming the air, suffocating, smothering… _becoming air_.

The boy is shivering, and the man’s heart breaks.

The vase now lies shattered in pieces on the stone floor, not unlike a skipping stone sinking to the bottom of a pond. Its purpose as the unintentional catalyst of disruption had long been served, just as the sinking stone for the ripples on the crystalline pond surface had already spread and soared.

The man looks on silently as his impromptu caretaker scrambles up from his bed in the room and rushes towards the child in the corner. His caretaker is a broad, tall man with a sincere, soft-spoken personality. A handsome, charming lad, if not for the sunken cheekbones and the flush of fatigue darkening his face.

His caretaker holds the boy tight in against his broad, broad chest, murmuring wordless prayers in a melody of a lullaby. The man vaguely remembers the feel of that chest, in which he was swept up against just days ago. It was a welcoming warmth, an opportunity to simply… _live_ , breathe while this other kind, _kind_ man had offered pity and provided the rhythm of another being existing in the cruel desert.

The feeling had not lasted long as he had collapsed while letting his guard down, and then here he was, in a bed of all things. Finding himself sleeping in a bed had confused him, and the alluring sense of comfort had led to dreaming. Could he blame the sudden exposure to a luxury like a soft bed after days and days of trekking through the villainous desert for causing the sick child to suffer another night of fever-induced insomnia? After all, it was his fault for having those treacherous dreams again, yet he had not dreamt a single night whilst ensnared in the depths of the sand so perhaps it was the bed’s fault in lowering his defences…?

He had even thought of ponds.

 _Water_.

When was the last time he’d seen a pond larger than this particular room?

( _Oasis…!_ )

He zones off contemplating, and only acknowledges the presence of his caretaker when he realises that silence had once again swept into the room. The coughing, miraculously, had subsided and once again the boy succumbs to exhaustion and sleeps.

He lowers his guilty glance, reluctant to look at the other man for the broken vase suddenly garnered his full interest. He does not hear his caretaker heave, no, for the other man is too polite and gentle for that to occur; his skin tickles as he feels the sigh, the hush of air seemingly colder in contrast to the dry, brittle heat that envelopes them.

His caretaker speaks first. “Pilgrim, is everything alright? You woke so suddenly in the hours of the abyss, I feared that something was troubling you...”

A sharp pain sparks in his gut and numbs his soul. His head snaps up to stare at this selfless, _idiotically selfless_ man, lips trembling and eyes wide.

His caretaker jerks at the spontaneous movement, taken aback by the brilliant azure gaze that so surely pierced though his mortal figure and peered deep into his soul. “Good… good pilgrim? Is something the matter? Luna forbid, are you in pain?”

The pilgrim tears his gaze away, obsidian locks flying untamed as his body shakes in guilt and anger. Did this man not think and consider himself? Is he unable to?

“Good pilgrim, please-

“…Sorry.”

“Pardon? My profound apologises, good pilgrim, but did you say something?” The caretaker remains patient and smiles expectantly, eyebrows and the corners of his lips upturning.

His caretaker’s eyes are a warm green. It frustrates him to no end.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sotto voce. “I’m sorry about waking that child after all your efforts in getting him to sleep.”

A bittersweet chuckle rumbles deep from the emerald-eyed man, and he gently turns the pilgrim by the shoulders until they face eye to eye. “Please… please, good pilgrim, do not apologise,” the caretaker says while maintaining eye contact with the pilgrim. “Ren has been unwell for many moons, and you have been nothing but considerate…”

The pilgrim is fed up with this selflessness.

“Good pilgrim?”

He casts his eyes away and turns his body. “I would like to rest.”

His caretaker appears to be startled but nods while adopting a sheepish grin. “Oh. Ah, of course, pilgrim. I’m sorry that I’ve taken so much of your time-

The pilgrim narrows his eyes, shaking off the urge to roll them. “Please, good merchant, retire for the rest of the abyss tide. You deserve rest.”

The caretaker is flustered by these words, for they are the most of the few words the pilgrim has spoken since their encounter within the desert. “Ah, yes, I-

A frown flashes across the pilgrim’s face, brows furrowing deeply. This merchant talks far too much. “Good night, good merchant. Luna bless you.”

“Ah… yes! Good night, good pilgrim. May Luna’s blessings guide you through abyss tide tonight.” The caretaker fights the small genuine smile – the first of many moons since Ren fell ill – but it plasters itself on his face and stays with him through abyss tide, all the way until the crack of dawn.

 

When he stirs again in the morning, the merchant is already awake and bustling around the room. He stretches silently whilst remaining on the bed, and decides that his sore muscles will no longer hinder him so.

The merchant drops something on the floor and is flustered to see that the pilgrim has woken. “Ah! Good morning, pilgrim. Did I wake you?” he asks sheepishly.

A curt shake of the head denies it. The pilgrim thinks that he should seriously get going.

“I’m relieved then,” the merchant exhales merrily. “Why don’t you get some more rest? I’ll go and prepare breakfast and then I can-

“Good merchant.”

Once again, the merchant is flustered. “Yes?”

Shaking his head again, the pilgrim looks wearily at the other man. “I must leave.”

The merchant cocks his head, radiant expression clouding over slightly. “I don’t understand, good pilgrim… Is there something wrong? Why must you leave? There are-”

“Good merchant.”

“Yes?”

“You are a descendant of Mother Gaia.”

The merchant casts his eyes away at this statement. Nothing the pilgrim had said to him was ever a question.

“I have a journey I must resume.”

The merchant - the one who wields earth - stares directly at the pilgrim. “What are you, good pilgrim?”

Visibly flinching, the pilgrim breaks eye contact. “That you will see, for you have deserved such a reward,” he decides and cranes his neck to glance out the window on the opposite side of the room. The window depicts the street-goers and the villagers flowing through the streets of town, and the pilgrim realises that he has already stalled too long. “I have stayed here and demanded your generous hospitality for far too long, and the land beyond the desert yearns for me.”

The land beyond the desert? “Such a treacherous path… Does it yearn for you, or are those just empty words shielding your yearning for the mystical land instead?”

The pilgrim takes no offense to this light-hearted accusation. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Maybe. I must go.” The pilgrim reaffirms and stands, not the least bit shy about his state of undress and starts searching for his garments and scimitar, a family heirloom.

The other man hastily averts his vision out of reflex. For what? They are both men, yet he is acting prudish for no reason. For his own comfort, or for modesty? “I have locked your blade away,” he murmurs, “for it was visibly encrusted in valuable gems and ores. Take your time to refresh yourself while I go and retrieve it.”

When he returns, the pilgrim is nowhere to be seen. He is nonplussed, and turns to exit his humble abode. The pilgrim was leaving, right? He decides he would head towards the gates of the township and hopefully track down the elusive and undeniably mysterious individual somewhere along the way.

 

He finds the pilgrim a lot faster than he’d predicted. The pilgrim’s distinctive dress alluded to a heritage stemming elsewhere from the desert, but even without the benefit of such peculiar fashion he knew as soon as his eyes fell upon the man. The merchant finds it impossible to read the pilgrim’s _aura_ , yet there was one so unique and unfamiliar he was inevitably drawn to the other man’s presence.

It only takes a few strides before he catches up to the pilgrim, and he doesn’t know what to say. Awkwardly reaching out to tap the man on the shoulder, he offers he blade once the pilgrim turns abruptly.

“Good merchant,” he says, “What…?”

“Your blade.”

The pilgrim hesitantly withdraws the scimitar from the merchant. He fastens it to his belt without a word.

“I can accompany you to the town gates if you like.”

The reply is curt and slashes back instantly. “No. I’ve dwelled upon your care for too long.”

“It’s just a formality!”

Oh. Wrong move there, genius.

The pilgrim’s eyes narrow. “That’s why it’s not _necessary_.”

The merchant shakes his head. “No, no! I didn’t mean that…” He watches on hopelessly as the pilgrim stalks off.

He realises he cannot leave it like this, not _again_ – unsaid, unheard, _unexplained_ …! This time, he will not – cannot – takes things lying down, brushed off.

It is this that gives the merchant the willpower to widen his paces, increase the speed of his footsteps and ensnare one of the pilgrim’s wrists in an unrelenting hold, forcing the other man to stop in his tracks and turn.

The pilgrim stares, expectant.

“My name is Makoto. Tachibana Makoto.”

The pilgrim’s eyes narrow and reaches to shake Makoto’s grip off, leaning his body to soldier on into the sand and dust.

“My name is Makoto and I am the elder son from a famous merchant family and this – oh Luna, this doesn’t matter to you at all, does it,” he cries exasperatedly.

The blank stare is borderline unnerving. The wrist almost feels fragile, brittle.

Makoto isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Can’t you _say_ something? Does it have to end like this?”

“… You’re right. What you’ve told me doesn’t matter to me,” the pilgrim says. It’s a bleak reply, yet nevertheless cutting and harsh.    

Makoto bites out a laugh then. It’s a defence mechanism.

“What matters is that you’re a descendant of Mother Gaia and I am forever indebted to you.” At that moment, the pilgrim’s wrist starts slipping through his fingers and his body edges away.

Makoto bristles. He’s under pressure and it just can’t end like this, _not like this nothing but this_ …! “Just what are you, pilgrim?” he pleads, yearning for an answer, _anything._

“Is this a fountain?”

“What are you, pilgrim. Won’t you answer me?”

“This is a fountain.”

Makoto surrenders. “If you’re so sure, then why did you trouble yourself by posing the question to me?”

The pilgrim jumps, if ever so slightly. For someone so forward, he’s taken the liberty to look slightly affronted. Makoto wasn’t sure if the pilgrim had had it in him, but he himself had roused pretty horrible aspects of his personality if the flow of their one-sided conversation was any indication.

“I apologise for my brash mannerisms… this indeed is a fountain, but it is visibly dead. It dried up many years before my birth and has remained the same ever since… Good pilgrim?”

It happens so fast, Makoto isn’t really sure it happened at all. There is a brilliant, radiant, unexplainable flash and Makoto has never felt so refreshed in his life. He is near blinded but keeps his eyes peeled for other man, who has him totally, utterly and completely captivated for reasons Makoto himself is not too sure about. Makoto feels moisture surrounding him, completely enveloping his being, and he is totally nonplussed. Each step he pushes towards the pilgrim freezes him little by little, and instantaneously the world seems colder than it’s ever been – a zephyr his mind has no recollection of courses, spiralling around and it’s from this moment he suspects he won’t ever feel like this ever again, not if he lets go of this mysterious man now, not if he does it now, not ever again…!

The pilgrim’s wrist slips out of his grasp completely. Makoto feels compelled to sob.

It is then that he feels something uncanny against his lips. He can hardly put a name to it, for it feels so foreign, unearthly even.

_Could it be the ice depicted in my childhood fables? A phenomenon of frozen water?_

The maybe-ice moves against his lips, and Makoto decides that they ice-lips.

Makoto also decides that he must be delirious, but then he feels a breath, hot yet comforting, exhaled from the pair of ice-lips.

“My name,” comes the breath, flushing warmth back into Makoto’s system and he realises it’s _that_ voice, “is Haruka.”

There is another flash, and when Makoto regains his vision, all he sees is the pilgrim – _Haruka –_ sprinting off into the vast, endless sand and the fountain flowing behind him.

The _fountain_.

Makoto scrambles up, slipping once in his haste and thrusts his hands in the running water in an undignified manner. There is _water_ , clean water and the fountain is flowing…

Adrenaline rushes through his body and Makoto throws his body in the opposite direction, the direction that Haruka was headed towards, and runs, runs runs until he can run no further, falling face first into the sand. There is moisture on his face again but this time tears, not stray water, run down his cheeks and he _sobs_. “Thank you thank you _thank you,_ thank you dearest pilgrim, may Lady Luna bless you eternally… Godspeed, _water seer_ …”

**Author's Note:**

> please yell at me in the comment section below because i know that was rather horrendous and arduous (kudos for those who managed to reach these notes at the bottom!) or on tumblr at green-teaice-cream.tumblr.com


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